City of Time (8 page)

laughed softly. Owen found himself thinking of a photo graph of his parents when they were younger.

Dr. Diamond made them wait until the couple had gone, then they moved forward again. The going was slow and treacherous now. There were pools caused by the tide where there had been none before, and channels gouged in the path by the rising water. Owen heard a splash and Cati muttering a curse as she slipped into the water. The river even smelled different, of seaweed and tidal pools.

"We need some light," Owen said. "It's hard to see."

Dr. Diamond looked cautiously around, then let Owen light his magno torch by sliding open a small window in the side. A beam of intense blue light shone out.

Owen scanned the wall above his head until he saw the tunnel a little downriver. It looked dark and gloomy. They moved downstream until they were directly under the opening.

"How do we get up there?" Cati asked.

The doctor didn't answer but took his rucksack off and fished around in it, coming out with a line with a hook on the end and a little motor. Swinging the hook around his head expertly, he threw it upward until it caught on the edge of the opening. He attached the motor to the line and turned it on. Humming quietly, the motor shot to the top of the line and stopped. Then he looped the rope quickly round Owen's waist and gave the line two sharp tugs. Owen felt himself hoisted quickly upward by the little motor.

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At the top, Owen unfastened himself and threw down the line. While he was waiting for Dr. Diamond and Cati to ascend, he stared apprehensively into the tunnel. He caught a hint of the smell again, of snow and cold mountain air.

Soon his companions were up there too, and Dr. Diamond packed the hook, line, and motor back into the rucksack. "Useful little thing." He smiled. "Come on."

He took the magno torch from Owen and plunged into the darkness. Cati followed him with a shrug. Owen found himself standing on his own, watching the blue light of the torches recede into the dark. Owen started to follow them, then realized he had left without even saying goodbye to his mother!

Suddenly he felt the ground beneath his feet begin to shake again, and looked up. A crack was forming in the ceiling of the tunnel. Half running, half crawling, Owen forced himself to go up the tunnel.

Dr. Diamond grabbed his hand and urged him on. Behind them there was a great crash, and they were flung to the ground. The quake grew momentarily more violent before it went away. The three companions looked behind them. Through the dust they could see that the roof of the tunnel had collapsed.

"There is no way back," Cati murmured.

"Not this way, anyway," the doctor said.

Cati picked her way up the tunnel behind him. Owen shut his eyes and saw his mother's face. Then he

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opened his eyes again, turned heavily, and followed the others.

In the warm darkness of the warehouse Starry, the Raggie girl Silkie awoke. Her head was pounding and she felt breathless and hot. Around her the other children were tossing in their sleep, some muttering. She remembered ... what? Someone had touched her head. There had been a long and difficult wakening while the strange, black, clinging sleep had kept her under its surface. But someone had called her without meaning to, and she had been able to wake only because of that touch. A touch from someone she had watched shyly from the first time he had arrived in the warehouse.

Silkie sat up. At once she sensed the odd, sickly atmosphere in the Starry. She looked over toward Wesley, as she always looked to him for guidance, but his bed was empty. Quickly she got up and went over to feel the blanket. Cold. He'd been gone for a while. She looked around, her mind in turmoil. Something was badly wrong.

She went to the window, where she could see the harbor. The moon blazed unnaturally bright, illuminating the high tide spilling over the dock wall. Then her eyes were drawn to a burly figure striding along the dock, carrying a torch in one hand and a container in the other. Johnston.

As Silkie watched he approached the warehouse

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door, looked around furtively, then placed the torch and container on the ground and took a crowbar from inside his coat. He forced open the old door, the wood giving way with a loud, protesting sound. Quickly Johnston slipped inside.

Silkie ran to the hatch that gave access to the rest of the building, trying to stem the panic rising inside her. The Starry could wait; Johnston was a more urgent threat.

She ran into the main part of the warehouse. It was pitch-dark, but she knew her way around without lights. Although it was cold outside, the warehouse was warm, with a sweet musty smell that reminded her of the barefoot children who lived and played here when they were awake. She moved swiftly to the door where Johnston had entered and darted up the staircase opposite.

Silkie was at the first floor now, moving quietly on the dusty floorboards. As she neared the front of the building she stopped and listened. She could hear a voice. Whatever Johnston was up to, he was
singing
to himself as he did it, his voice a deep rumble rising from below. She could see light from his torch shining through the chinks between the floorboards and hear footsteps as he moved about the room.

She was in the room where they cured and stored fish. The room Johnston was in was where the Raggies dried their damp clothes after a fishing expedition. Both

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rooms smelled of fish, but there was another, stronger smell now. Silkie remembered smelling it on the river once, spilled from a passing boat. Petrol, Wesley had said it was, flicking a match into it so the surface of the water flared up and burned with a blue flame.

There was a trapdoor in the floor and Silkie eased it open. Below she could see Johnston in one corner. He was pouring liquid onto the floor from the container until it was empty, still humming loudly. When he straightened, the smell of petrol was overwhelming.

He walked across the room. As he passed the window the moonlight caught his face, his red complexion appearing pale and ghastly under his thatch of wiry black hair. At the doorway he turned and started searching his pockets.

Matches
, Silkie thought.
He's looking for matches. He's going to set fire to the place
. Frantically she wondered what to do. Then her eye fell on the fish pot--a cast-iron pan that they used to wash the catch. She was always telling the younger ones off for not emptying it, but now she was praying that it was full. Quietly she scampered over to the pot and slid the lid off. It was half full of oily water, and she recoiled from the stench of year-old fish.

"Where are those damn matches?" she heard Johnston growl from below. Silkie put her arms around the pot and heaved it off the ground. Stinking water slopped over her arms and chest and she gasped, her

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knees buckling under the weight as she heaved it to the trapdoor.

She looked down. Johnston had found the matchbox. He struck a match and as it flared, he held it up to his face, gazing almost lovingly into the flame.

With all her strength, Silkie upended the pot. Johnston looked up just as the torrent of rancid liquid reached him, sweeping the match from his hand, plastering his hair to his head and drenching his clothes in vile, fishy water. Silkie stared down at what she had done. Johnston looked almost comical, his mouth agape, his small eyes blinking out from a thicket of wet hair and slime. She lost her grip on the pot and the heavy iron vessel slipped from her hand. It bounced off the edge of the hatch with a clang, then plummeted down, striking the side of Johnston's head with a sickening thud.

Johnston swayed. An ugly white-lipped gash appeared on his temple and blood started to ooze from it. His head turned very slowly until he was looking directly into Silkie's eyes. He didn't say a word, but he held her gaze. She wanted to look away but couldn't. It made her feel like crying.

Johnston smiled a grim little smile to himself, then turned and left, moving more quietly than Silkie would have believed possible for such a big man. He left behind only a pool of water on the floor and the stench of old fish and petrol.

Johnston might not have spoken, but his eyes had

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given Silkie a clear message: that he knew her now and he would not forgive her, and that he would return. She slumped back against the hatch cover. The moonlight cast her shadow against the wall and it loomed over her, as if to remind her how alone she was.

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Chapter 9

Dr. Diamond stood in the little courtyard, a delighted expression on his face. He paced about, examining the moldering shop fronts, the deep ruts in the ground. Even the very dust seemed to fascinate him.

"It's a bit
musty
, isn't it?" Cati asked.

"Kind of," Owen said.

"I mean, what is this place, anyway?" Cati said.

"It's a ... it's a frontier, a border," Dr. Diamond said. "Or it was at one time."

"Like going from one country to another?" Owen asked.

"Exactly. That's a very intelligent observation, Owen."

"Really?" Owen said, feeling more confused than intelligent.

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"This proves that there were comings and goings between this place and the City of Time in years gone by. That there were trade, traffic, commerce. It seems that the traffic came to a halt for some reason, and the Resisters forgot about it. It was what your father maintained, Owen. He said that there could be commerce again. I ... we ... were worried about it... he was inclined to exaggerate sometimes."

"At least he was right about something," Owen murmured sourly.

"And then there is this ... this ... ute marvel!" Dr. Diamond's outflung arm indicated the old truck in the middle of the yard. Cati and Owen exchanged glances. Whatever the truck was, the word
marvel
didn't quite seem to apply.

"Now show me the passage you found," Dr. Diamond said. Owen led him to the gates beside the Gobillard et Fils shop. The doctor helped him to swing them fully open. They creaked and protested and flakes of rust fell off into Owen's hair, but in the end the three friends were looking down the passage, the ground underfoot rutted by countless wheels, the walls battered and scarred. And there was that smell again, of mountains and snow. They stood in silence.

"The way to Hadima," Dr. Diamond said, putting a protective arm around Cati's shoulders. "To the City of Time."

"Do we walk or what?" Owen asked.

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"No, I wouldn't think so. Let's take a closer look at that marvelous truck."

The doctor led them over to the vehicle. He opened the hood latches and peered inside. Owen looked over his shoulder. The engine was a tangle of oily pipes and half-exposed wires, some with insulating tape wrapped around them. Deep in the heart of the engine he could see a faint glow of blue, indicating the presence of magno.

"A Prentiss twin-cam eight-stroke," Dr. Diamond said, patting the fender. "An absolute beauty. Needs a bit of work, though."

Owen felt Cati shiver as she stood beside him. He saw that her face was gray with tiredness. For the first time since they'd been reunited he remembered how the Harsh had blasted her with eternal cold. It was said then that she would never fully recover from it.

"Dr. Diamond," he said.

The scientist looked around, concern filling his eyes when he saw Cati. "It's late and you need to rest," he said. "Come on." He led them to the rear of the truck, pulled aside the canvas flaps, and unfolded a small metal ladder. Full of misgiving, Owen followed him up. His idea of rest wasn't the back of a smelly old truck. He slipped in under the canvas and stood in the dark while Dr. Diamond fumbled with a switch.

Owen blinked when the lights came on. It wasn't like the interior of any truck he'd seen. One wall was covered with racks for carrying freight, but the rest of it